A Miracle
by Lildaani
Summary: [Two Shot][Non HBP DH compatible][HGDM] Draco contemplates ending his life when he's interrupted by everyone's favorite Gryffindor female. Updated! Added a chapter to explain what was going through Hermione's mind.
1. Draco's POV

A/N: Hello! This is my first submission to the world of fanfiction, just a little one shot. Hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, sadly.

Rain cascaded down, a waterfall, an unceasing torrent. Time slipped by, riding upon the water, seeming to pass by in a torrent, and yet truly moving so slowly, so very slowly. He watched this, thinking of his family, his father, a slobbering buffoon that couldn't even recognize his wife or son, imprisoned for following a crazed megalomaniac. His mother, slowly, slowly but surely, drinking away the family fortune with her high priced wines, her constant state of inebriation. And himself, a seventeen year old, charged with making sure this didn't happen, that the Malfoys stayed rich, stayed respected, stayed everything that they already weren't. He glanced at the dagger in his hand, silver, the handle in the shape of a serpent, its eye a small emerald.

An instrument worthy of the destruction of the last Malfoy, he thought, turning it over and over and over again within his hand. The emerald that formed the snake's eye glittered in the ambient light of the castle, the castle that had been the closest to a home he had ever had, but even it had fallen short of his expectations. He continued to watch the rain, flipping the knife around within his hand.

His father. Would he understand, when they told him? Would he understand that his son, his heir, was dead? Would the man realize that the Malfoys were dead, gone, a line of purebloods wiped out forever? Probably not.

His mother. She would understand, but it would kill her. This was the thought that made him hesitate, stand here, listening to the sound of the rain drumming on the stone castle, toying with the knife that would end it all. His mother _cared._ That was the problem. She _cared_ about him, Draco, as well as his father, slobbering buffoon that he was.

He looked at the knife again, glittering, taunting him to do it, to get it over with. What would he care about a drunken mother when he was buried, beneath the ground, away from the pains of emotion, away from the tortures of life?

He moved the knife, tracing, feather-light, the path it would take along his skin, opening a vein that would spill all of his 'pure' blood upon the earth, mixing with the mud.

A smile, self deprecating, stretched his mouth. How appropriate, he thought, that in death, I would become a mudblood? It's the 'pure' who are truly dirty; truly deserve to be treated as animals.

His thoughts returned to his mother, his mother, who had committed no crime besides loving her husband and son, no crime other than caring too deeply, to strongly, to leave them.

The blade continued to trace its future path, up and down his arm, slowly, caressingly. A shiver of something ran up his arm, up his spine, and down to his legs. Fear? Anticipation? He didn't even know. His gaze returned, unfocused, to the waterfall of rain before him. His mind went numb, to numb to think, or act. The blade continued to trace the vein in his arm.

"Who left this door open?" A voice from within the castle said.

His brain was in hyper drive, so focused on his thoughts that it was numb. He heard the voice, but it didn't register, didn't break the numbness.

"Hello? Is someone out here? You're not allowed to be out this time of night!" A bushy head peeked out the door, nearly missing him, but catching sight of his pale hair at the last moment. She stepped out, hands on her hips. She hadn't seen the knife, yet.

"Malfoy? You may be Head Boy, but you're not allowed outside this late, either."

He didn't reply, didn't acknowledge that he had heard her.

"Malfoy?" She saw the knife, still tracing, up and down, up and down. "What are you doing with that? Malfoy, answer me."

He blinked, coming out of his trance. He gazed at her, not bothering to put up his façade of indifference, of coldness. The pain in his eyes was such that her own widened, such that she took a step back.

"Draco?" she asked, unsure.

"Granger," he said, slowly. Up and down, ceaselessly along the vein. "I just – I can't do this."

"Do what?" she asked, watching the glinting blade, mesmerized by it. She knew 'what,' but wanted to keep him talking, wanted to try and think of a way to get the knife away from him. He read her as easily as any book.

"I can't repair the damage my father did to the Malfoy name, can't deal with my mother, can't live my pathetic little life any more, pretending that everything is okay, everything is fine."

"Draco…" she bit her lip, faltering. "It may seem rough now, but things will get better…"

"That's all you can offer? A cliché? You don't even know me, Granger. You don't know my family, what's happening behind the scenes. This won't get better, Granger. It would take a miracle."

"Please, give me the knife. Whatever it is, it's not worth dying over."

He looked at the knife, still tracing its path. The eye glinted at him again. What are you waiting for? it seemed to say. Why do you prolong this agony?

"It takes courage to die," Granger said, slowly, softly. "But it takes even more, to live."

"Too bad courage is a Gryffindor trait," he said, but the blade paused in its ceaseless journey, now resting on its side against his arm.

"There's courage in all of us, Draco," she said, barely audible above the crashing water.

To this, he did not respond immediately, turning his gaze back to the water in front of him. What was once a waterfall was now a trickle, a mere drizzle. He sensed, rather than saw, Granger moving closer to him.

"I don't know if I have enough courage to live, Hermione," he whispered.

She touched his arm, the one holding the knife. "Let me help you," she answered.

His eyes shifted from the rain, to the blade, to her. His silvery orbs bored into her copper eyes, seeking pity, something that would belie her wish to help him, but he found nothing. Only warmth and concern, true concern, for _him_, for _Draco Malfoy_, hater of Gryffindors, of Mudbloods, of everything that she, Hermione Granger, was.

His eyes shifted once more to the knife, the serpent seemed to hiss – at him or at the mudblood, it was hard to say. It was, after all, a Malfoy family heirloom. He lifted it from his skin, slowly, oh so slowly, and flipped it in his hand again, this time so that he grasped it, carefully, by the point.

The girl smiled at him, a real smile, and to both of their surprise, she kissed him. Long and hard, passionate and deep, they kissed until their lungs burned and they had to come up for air, or else have that whole episode be for naught. They pulled away, a fraction of an inch, resting their foreheads together.

"Hermione," Draco whispered.

"Mm?"

"Thank you," he said, really meaning it.


	2. Hermione's POV

A/N: Ok, so I decided to make this a 2 shot, this is pretty much the same thing, from Hermione's perspective. The dialogue is the same, but the introspection about it is different. This is for marie! hope it explains it reasonably well?

Disclaimer: Didn't own them an hour ago, don't own them now.

For Hermione, it was slow. The process of realizing that something was wrong, that something was off. It took her so long to place, and then, finally, she realized. Draco Malfoy, the bane of her existence, the Slytherin Prince, hater of everything she stood for… was no longer her bane. He no longer picked fights with her at Head Student meetings, or in the hallways, or anywhere at all. He barely even spoke to her now. Or to anyone at all, she noticed.

It shouldn't bother her. He was her enemy. She didn't - or shouldn't - care less about him. And yet, she did care. She wondered why he was so withdrawn, so… depressed. When they were close, forced together by responsibility, she felt the hopelessness radiating from him as if he were a dementor. She tried to rile him up, get him to fight with her, like they always used to do, but he didn't respond.

She shouldn't feel this. She shouldn't feel concern for her enemy. And yet, wasn't that what made her different from him? That she cared, not just about herself and her friends, but about everyone? She told herself this repeatedly, tried to believe it. It still felt wrong. Yet, she couldn't stop. She missed the prat.

She walked down to the first story, frowning at the open door. "Who left this door open?" she called, walking over to it. "Hello? Is someone out here? You're not allowed to be out this time of night!"

She poked her head out and looked around, almost missing him, almost. She stepped out, hands on her hips, always an authority figure, always bossy and in control. "Malfoy? You may be Head Boy, but you're not allowed outside this late, either."

He didn't reply.

"Malfoy?" Her eyes caught the movement, the ceaseless movement. A knife, tracing a vein in his arm. Her eyes widened, slightly. "What are you doing with that? Malfoy, answer me."

Then he looked at her. The pain in his eyes excruciating, indescribable, unfathomable. She stepped back, her eyes widened further.

"Draco?" she asked, unsure.

"Granger," his voice was strange, hollow. There was no hint of his usual drawl. The knife never paused. "I just – I can't do this."

"Do what?" she asked, eyes on the blade, trying to figure out how to get it away from him. No sudden moves, no drawing a wand, too risky, too risky. _I miss the prat_, her earlier thought echoed to her now, unwanted, unwelcome. If he did this, if he really did this, he would be gone. No more arguments, no more battles of wit. _He would be gone._

"I can't repair the damage my father did to the Malfoy name, can't deal with my mother, can't live my pathetic little life any more, pretending that everything is okay, everything is fine."

"Draco…" she bit her lip, faltering. She had to talk him out of this. She couldn't bear him being gone. Her days would be meaningless. Be ignored by the boys as they talked about quidditch, do her homework, be ignored, work, work, sleep. Empty, hollow. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to change the routine. "It may seem rough now, but things will get better…"

"That's all you can offer? A cliché? You don't even know me, Granger. You don't know my family, what's happening behind the scenes. This won't get better, Granger. It would take a miracle."

The words stung, finally something the know-it-all didn't know. But she wouldn't give up. "Please, give me the knife. Whatever it is, it's not worth dying over."

He looked back at the knife, still in motion, ever in motion. Hermione fought back tears as she said, slowly, softly, "It takes courage to die. But it takes even more, to live."

"Too bad courage is a Gryffindor trait," he said, but the blade had stopped, she saw with much relief, even a little joy. _I'm getting through to him_.

"There's courage in all of us, Draco," she said, barely audible above the crashing water.

He turned his gaze back to the cascade of water, poring from the sky and the roof, but it wasn't a waterfall any more, it was less, just a drizzle of water. She moved closer to him, hesitantly.

"I don't know if I have enough courage to live, Hermione," he whispered, her given name falling easily from his lips, surprising her, sending a tingle down her spine.

She touched his arm, the one holding the knife. "Let me help you," she answered.

After a moment he turned his gaze back to her, his eyes still pained, yet obviously searching her own for something, a reason behind her words, perhaps, a reason behind her kindness. She did not feel pity. Merely concern. Concern for her sparring partner, her match in wits and intelligence, that was all, nothing more. _Then why does it feel like more?_

His eyes moved away from hers, seeking the blade once again. He lifted it away from her skin, and this time she did feel joy, she had gotten though to him, saved him from himself. He grasped it by the point, and looked back at her, and she smiled, a true smile that showed her joy, and on impulse she kissed him.

For a fraction of a second, they were both to surprised to do much, and then he kissed her back, passionate and long, and when they came up for air, Hermione was breathless, from the length of the kiss, but also the intensity, the need that she had felt in it, from them both. They rested their foreheads together, catching their breath.

"Hermione," Draco whispered.

"Mm?" she replied.

"Thank you," he said, and she could tell he really meant it.

For a minute they just stood like that, drinking in each other's presence. Then Draco pulled away, and threw the knife, the awful snake-like knife, towards the lake, and it landed, amazingly, with a 'plop' into the water.

Things would be alright. They would get better. They always did. Right?


End file.
